Free Astor Place Vintage: A Novel by Stephanie Lehmann Page A

subject with my father.
    Veering down Broadway, we passed the brightly lit store windows of Brooks Brothers, Lord & Taylor, and Arnold Constable’s. At Union Square we crossed Fourteenth Street, farther downtown than I’d been yet. “One day I’d like to go all the way down to the seaport,” I said.
    “No need for you to go any farther than this, Olive.”
    “The Jewish quarter, Little Italy, Chinatown . . . it all sounds so exotic, and I’m sure it’s perfectly safe in the daytime.”
    “Decent young woman don’t wander around the slums.”
    I pressed my lips together. He’d been poisoned by a stew of recent newspaper stories about white slavery. They’d have us believe that every woman who took a walk by herself ended up in a house of ill repute.
    “There’s St. Mark’s,” Father said as we passed an old church. “Beautiful, isn’t it? A hundred years old. Now here it is, surrounded by all these blasted tenements. Did you know PeterStuyvesant’s farm once stood here? Can you imagine all this as green fields instead of concrete?”
    “Why not go even further back, to the Indians? They must’ve been horrified to see men razing forests for their farms. And a hundred years from now, I wager New Yorkers will feel sentimental over the very tenements you’re complaining about.”
    “Hard to imagine, but I suppose you might be right. The old always yields to the new—that’s life.” He patted my hand. “You’re too smart for your own good, young lady.”
    I basked in his praise, such as it was, until we turned onto First Avenue, a wide shabby street, gritty from neglect, with El tracks running overhead. “I didn’t think the El ran down First Avenue.”
    “This is the Second Avenue El. It only runs on First Avenue as far as Twenty-third Street; then it turns over to Second Avenue and goes clear up to the Bronx.”
    The driver pulled over on Eleventh Street, and Father took out his wallet. The Bronx was yet another part of New York I couldn’t imagine. Stepping down from the carriage, I promised myself that one day I’d know all the ins and outs of the city.
    Father took my arm as we walked down the street. Tenements lined both sides of the block, with the neighborhood shops on the ground floor and apartments above. An assortment of foreign-looking people passed by. A dark-skinned young man wore the oddest cone-shaped fur hat. A scrawny old woman wore wooden clogs and hunched under a yellow shawl. We reached a storefront with CAFFE PUGLIESE stenciled on the plate glass. A waif in a tattered sweater sat on the sidewalk by the door.
    “Can you help me, ma’am, please?” She reached out with an open palm. “Just a penny for a piece of bread . . .”
    Such sad eyes. Gaunt face. I buried my hands inside my muff, wishing I’d brought some coins. Father pretended not to notice her while opening the door. And then we entered yet anotherworld. This one was warm, cheerful, and brightly lit, with a wonderful scent in the air.
    “Is that licorice?” I took in a deep breath to make it linger in my nose.
    “Anise.”
    A long wood counter displayed trays of pastries. Tarts piled with glistening fruit, cakes slathered with buttercream flowers, rows of rainbow-colored cookies . . . So much rich food for us, while that hungry waif would be grateful for just one bite. A dark-haired woman behind the counter welcomed us with a buona sera, took our coats, and directed us to the back, where the scent of anise faded to the less alluring odor of tobacco. Lots of men and very few women sat drinking coffee and reading the evening papers. Lively strains of Italian and English bounced off the tile walls.
    “Someone appears to be with him,” Father said, leading me to a table.
    I looked eagerly to see the fourth person; it wasn’t a daughter. Father introduced me to his manager friend Howard Pierce, who in turn introduced his son. “Ralph came by just before I was leaving, so I invited him along.”
    “How